Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson Page B
Book: Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson
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Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
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sluggish, winding waterway. From a previous walk she knew there was an old oak tree that overhung the bank, and on the other side of that a narrow rushing stream where the best cress, tender, green and fresh, could be found.
But who was that reclined on the bank under the oak? If it was some local gentleman, a stranger, she did not want to disturb him. And yet, this was Lea Park land. It would not be a stranger unless he was trespassing.
She swished through the weedy grass, quietly approaching, until she saw that the gentleman dozing on the bank, a fishing rod discarded beside him, was Lord Drake. She crept closer and stood gazing down at him, serene in sleep. Even more casual than usual, he was dressed in a pair of disreputable breeches and a shirt with no cravat, and had a slouchy hat pulled down over his eyes. To her he looked perfectly splendid, stretched out at his ease, his long muscular legs crossed at the ankle. His open shirt exposed a triangle of pale skin with a swirl of golden hair, the most of any gentleman’s body she had ever seen, and she felt a heated flush rise in her cheeks.
And she had no right to be standing there gawking at him like a lackwit. She longed to join him, to sit down at his side on the peaceful riverbank, watching him sleep and thinking of all the tomorrows she would never have with him, all the tomorrows they could have if their situations were more equal.
Lord Drake’s hand twitched, and it was as though an electric surge pulsed through him. He cried out and flailed, shouting, “Up the hill, gentlemen, we must take the hill!”
He thrashed from side to side as True stood wondering what to do.
And then he stiffened, his whole body arching as though he suffered some incredible pain, and he wailed, a keening so mournful that the small hairs on the back of True’s neck stood up.
“Dead, I am . . . oh, God! Dead . . . I am gone.”
With a cry, True dropped her basket and rushed to Drake, horrified to know that he was in the depths of one of his hideous nightmares. What to do? Oh, Lord, what should she do? She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled off his hat, now wildly askew. Drake’s gaunt face was twisted in a grimace and tears rolled down his cheeks as he moaned and thrashed.
One should be gentle with someone in a nightmare and not awaken them too abruptly, True remembered. Oh, Lord , she prayed, let me help him, let me do the right thing.
Awkwardly, she put her arms around him, but he savagely fought her. He struggled in a nightmare battle with phantom enemies, clutching at her arms with a powerful, bruising grip. She was suddenly afraid; what did she know about this, about how to bring someone out of this kind of a state? But she would do what she could. She would surround him with her peace, she thought desperately, trying to twist her arms out of his grip. He released her. “Hush, Wy, hush. You are safe,” she murmured as he settled somewhat. She stroked his face and talked, pulling him closer as he stilled, cradling him in her arms. It was awkward. He was so very large compared to her, but her arms were long enough and she would let love comfort him.
With a great sigh, he went limp. And then, as quickly as it started, the nightmare ended and his eyes opened.
Chapter Eight
His eyes bleary and clouded, he stared up at her from his place in her arms and the drying tears on his cheek were joined by a fresh stream. He reached up and touched her face, his hand gentle, his touch wondering. True thought that he might not know where he was, or even who she was, his eyes were so unfocused.
And then he wept, great gusty sobs that wracked his body. He encircled her waist with his powerful arms and laid his head on her bosom and cried, murmuring incoherently at first, mumbling. But then she could make out words, and it was like a prayer for forgiveness, she thought, rocking him and soothing him.
“I killed him, poor f-fellow,” he cried. “He didn’t even have
But who was that reclined on the bank under the oak? If it was some local gentleman, a stranger, she did not want to disturb him. And yet, this was Lea Park land. It would not be a stranger unless he was trespassing.
She swished through the weedy grass, quietly approaching, until she saw that the gentleman dozing on the bank, a fishing rod discarded beside him, was Lord Drake. She crept closer and stood gazing down at him, serene in sleep. Even more casual than usual, he was dressed in a pair of disreputable breeches and a shirt with no cravat, and had a slouchy hat pulled down over his eyes. To her he looked perfectly splendid, stretched out at his ease, his long muscular legs crossed at the ankle. His open shirt exposed a triangle of pale skin with a swirl of golden hair, the most of any gentleman’s body she had ever seen, and she felt a heated flush rise in her cheeks.
And she had no right to be standing there gawking at him like a lackwit. She longed to join him, to sit down at his side on the peaceful riverbank, watching him sleep and thinking of all the tomorrows she would never have with him, all the tomorrows they could have if their situations were more equal.
Lord Drake’s hand twitched, and it was as though an electric surge pulsed through him. He cried out and flailed, shouting, “Up the hill, gentlemen, we must take the hill!”
He thrashed from side to side as True stood wondering what to do.
And then he stiffened, his whole body arching as though he suffered some incredible pain, and he wailed, a keening so mournful that the small hairs on the back of True’s neck stood up.
“Dead, I am . . . oh, God! Dead . . . I am gone.”
With a cry, True dropped her basket and rushed to Drake, horrified to know that he was in the depths of one of his hideous nightmares. What to do? Oh, Lord, what should she do? She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled off his hat, now wildly askew. Drake’s gaunt face was twisted in a grimace and tears rolled down his cheeks as he moaned and thrashed.
One should be gentle with someone in a nightmare and not awaken them too abruptly, True remembered. Oh, Lord , she prayed, let me help him, let me do the right thing.
Awkwardly, she put her arms around him, but he savagely fought her. He struggled in a nightmare battle with phantom enemies, clutching at her arms with a powerful, bruising grip. She was suddenly afraid; what did she know about this, about how to bring someone out of this kind of a state? But she would do what she could. She would surround him with her peace, she thought desperately, trying to twist her arms out of his grip. He released her. “Hush, Wy, hush. You are safe,” she murmured as he settled somewhat. She stroked his face and talked, pulling him closer as he stilled, cradling him in her arms. It was awkward. He was so very large compared to her, but her arms were long enough and she would let love comfort him.
With a great sigh, he went limp. And then, as quickly as it started, the nightmare ended and his eyes opened.
Chapter Eight
His eyes bleary and clouded, he stared up at her from his place in her arms and the drying tears on his cheek were joined by a fresh stream. He reached up and touched her face, his hand gentle, his touch wondering. True thought that he might not know where he was, or even who she was, his eyes were so unfocused.
And then he wept, great gusty sobs that wracked his body. He encircled her waist with his powerful arms and laid his head on her bosom and cried, murmuring incoherently at first, mumbling. But then she could make out words, and it was like a prayer for forgiveness, she thought, rocking him and soothing him.
“I killed him, poor f-fellow,” he cried. “He didn’t even have
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